 | The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook |  |
LIVE AND LET LIVE.
Methinks we should have this engraven,
Where all who are running may read;
Where Interest swoops like a raven,
Right eager to pounce and to feed.
For too often does Honesty dwindle
In bosoms that fatten on wealth,
While Craft, with unsatisfied spindle,
Sits winding in darkness and stealth.
It is fair we should ask for our labour
The recompense fairness should give;
But pause ere we trample a neighbour,
For Duty says, “Live and let live.”
Where all who are running may read;
Where Interest swoops like a raven,
Right eager to pounce and to feed.
For too often does Honesty dwindle
In bosoms that fatten on wealth,
While Craft, with unsatisfied spindle,
Sits winding in darkness and stealth.
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The recompense fairness should give;
But pause ere we trample a neighbour,
For Duty says, “Live and let live.”
Shame to those who, secure in their thriving,
Yet fain would keep poorer ones down—
Those who like not the crust of the striving
To grow to a loaf like their own.
Shame to those, who for ever are grasping
At more than one mortal need hold;
Whose heart-strings are coiling and clasping
Round all that gives promise of gold.
Shame to those who with eager attaining
Are willing to take, but not give,
Whose selfishness—coldly enchaining—
Forgets it should “Live and let live.”
Yet fain would keep poorer ones down—
Those who like not the crust of the striving
To grow to a loaf like their own.
Shame to those, who for ever are grasping
At more than one mortal need hold;
Whose heart-strings are coiling and clasping
Round all that gives promise of gold.
Shame to those who with eager attaining
Are willing to take, but not give,
Whose selfishness—coldly enchaining—
Forgets it should “Live and let live.”
There is room in the world for more pleasure,
If Man would but learn to be just;
And regret when his fellow-man's measure
Runs over with tear-drops and dust.
We were sent here to help one another,
And he who neglects the behest,
Disgraces the milk of his mother,
And spreadeth Love's pall o'er his breast.
And the spirit that covets unduly,
Holds sin that 'tis hard to forgive;
For Religion ne'er preaches more truly,
Than when she says, “Live and let live.”
If Man would but learn to be just;
And regret when his fellow-man's measure
Runs over with tear-drops and dust.
We were sent here to help one another,
And he who neglects the behest,
Disgraces the milk of his mother,
And spreadeth Love's pall o'er his breast.
And the spirit that covets unduly,
Holds sin that 'tis hard to forgive;
For Religion ne'er preaches more truly,
Than when she says, “Live and let live.”
| The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook | |